


a little tune that tells the story of what the night  is thinking

by horchatita394



Series: so it's summer, so it's suicide, so we're helpless in sleep [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horchatita394/pseuds/horchatita394
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An all-night barbecue, a mess of feelings, and some  Don McLean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little tune that tells the story of what the night  is thinking

**Author's Note:**

> All my loves to particular-madness on tumblr for bringing my muse back with this poem, to Alyssa (wishingonalightningbolt) for getting me back in the habit and to Gabe (flamesofatimelord) for making this lyrical madness somewhat grammatically correct.

Like most of Beacon Hills, the Stilinski house has more backyard than they know what to do with. Once, there had been plans for purposely positioned rocks and a peaceful pond filled with glimmering fish. Those dreams dried up.

Now there’s just an expanse of grass that Stiles mows as religiously as he vacuums, an eclectic collection of sun-bleached patio furniture, and a rusted barbecue that the years have cemented into place.

It’s Jackson’s birthday, wrapped in prime youth and the permanent mark of a morbid birth. He and Lydia, they’ve given up high school fame for a more primal sort of glory. So Allison is using her past generations worth of gymnastic skill genes to string up lights over the rustic scene because the Bro Code has nothing on the bond of magnificent women in love with feral boys. 

There’s a boxy black radio trying its damnedest to play anything other than Americana, but a lot of things are dried into place back here where the wounds tried to close up after the stab of death, so the little boxy radio can only croon the songs his mother hummed under her breath with her knees on the dirt.  
Everyone pours in like cousins, bringing cups and chips and electrical extensions and did everyone honestly leave their iPod at home cause mine’s dead and Isaac do me a favor and go get more ice.

There are no guests.

His steak is the first one to go on and the last one to come off the yellow-orange rusted grill and he’s a little afraid that Derek might char his to a coal just to make fun of his puny human tastes but when he hands it to him it tastes tangy and strong on his tongue, it tastes too dead for wolves but alive enough to count. 

There’s something warm and molten and humid that keeps them somewhat cohesive in the vast empty yard. Jackson is staring off with his drink in his hand and his pack can smell the unspoken-buried-deep-down grief. Lydia and Danny can read him like a book and their hands are on him like a sedative, they’re quiet and they give the illusion of soft constant movement like three visible heartbeats. They remind him of the circling cycling spirals on Derek’s back that seem to twist when he’s running, when he’s breathing. 

Stiles doesn’t need to smell the pain on Jackson or know him from the inside out, he knows how it sits on a heart. He looks over to see Allison’s own understanding that some things just are, sometimes you remember that you’re in a world without the one who put you there, that she’s down in the ground keeping company with worms, that you’ll never see her smile again and you’ll have to do without. He wonders if he has it better or worse, if he’d trade his memories for mysteries and he doesn’t know. 

Lydia is wrapping her arms around Jackson’s neck and Danny hangs on his back and they dance. They sway to music they’ve never encountered before in their crisp clean mp3 file lives and everything is murky now; dirty, basic, and tied. It’s going to dig their graves with claws one day, it’s going eat them alive. 

Stiles watches as Derek watches them and he wants. He wants the strength and power to protect and he wants to be protected. He wants to worship at the icon between his shoulder blades and he wants to be worshipped. He wants to seal his wounds with sugar and bleed sweet for him, he wants to be consumed.

Erica is laughing against Boyd’s chest with her fingers buried in Isaac’s hair and Allison is smiling with Scott on her lap while Danny and Jackson and Lydia are still dancing to their deaths.

Under the cover of music trying to save his mortal soul he moves his hand to press over the cotton covered ink on Derek’s back and feels the tension snap, feels the strain of power under his skin. He leans forward and speaks against the back of his neck, drunk on futility and lust. He presses himself against the hot stone lines of him.

Derek doesn’t answer him but he walks away towards the cover of near-darkness with Stiles at his heels, leaving the sounds of laughter and time-bomb lives behind. 

He’s leaning against the shed and judging him, “Are you that desperate? Do you think I’m that desperate?”

Stiles shrugs, “I like to play outside my league.”

“For both teams,” Derek says, with the dead pan humor of the obvious.

Stiles whispers affirmation against his lips before Derek shoves him back. It doesn’t sting like rejection, no, it burns like denial.

But he’s taken one step forward so he holds his breath, because solitary dancing is a matter of too much grace. He waits. 

Derek is staring at his chest and it occurs to him that the crackle of the radio might be drowned out to him in favor of the frantic drum beat of Stiles and his heart, the rushing of his fevered blood. Derek walks away. He waits.

**Author's Note:**

> Titles and sometimes summaries are taken from the source poem which you should seriously read like right now, "Little Beast" by Richard Siken (http://words-end-here.livejournal.com/29499.html)


End file.
